


one hundred and thirty (including the porgs)

by peradi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Force Sensitive Finn, M/M, SPOILERS FOR THE LAST JEDI, porgs, straight after the last jedi, tentative hope is the best kind of hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 11:11:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13098870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi
Summary: As they flee Crait, Finn counts what is left.





	one hundred and thirty (including the porgs)

 

“Forty eight,” says Finn to Poe. “That’s all that’s left.”

Shadows hang under Finn’s eyes. His mouth is sour with sleep and the stink of Rose’s burning hair is caught in his nostrils.

“That’s enough,” says Poe.

“Do you believe that?”

“I _have_ to.”

 

–

 

Finn’s pretty certain if you split his ribs open you’ll find those words seared into his heart: Rose Tico Will Live. It’s the most important fact in the known universe: more than any Jedi legend.

She’s in a medically induced coma, stuck in a bactasuit – the same sort of thing he wore, not so long ago – but she’s going to live, and the coma is designed to give her body time to heal. Her lovely face is bruised black and purple, like a thunderhead; the entire left side of her body is a cacophony of scraped skin and burns. But she’ll live. She’ll live.

He wants to kiss her hands, her forehead, her split open mouth; he wants to breathe _I’m sorry_ and _thank you_ and _I don’t understand_ into every inch of her skin. But she’s clad in bacta and bandage, and so he kisses the bubbleskin of the bactasuit instead, which feels strange under his lips – cold, delicate – and says, “When you wake up, I promise I’ll be there for you.”

The problem is that the _Falcon_ doesn’t have a medbay, because why would it? They’ve stuck Rose in the most private part of the ship – what used to be Han’s quarters – and she’s sharing with three pilots and one civilian and one angry meddroid who tolerates Finn’s presence for precisely five minutes before banishing him.

“There’s no space for you,” it says. “Visiting hours will be established when I have a proper ward.”

“But –” says Finn, “but –”

“I am sorry,” snaps the droid, as it pauses in its quest to hurry Finn past a bed (that’s a generous term: it’s three supply crates with an air mattress on top). “I did not realise you had medical training. By all means, Dr Visitor,” and here it gestures with one clawed limb, “tend to your patients.”

“I – look, I said I’d be there when she woke.”

“An admirable idea. I will call you when I pull her from the coma. Have I mentioned that it is _medically induced_? She is not a princess awaiting a kiss; I will wake her when it is medically expedient to do so; and when I do, I will comm you.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a way to remove the _know it all dick_ bit of your programming is there?” snaps Finn.

“No,” says the meddroid, and the doors swoosh shut.

 

–

 

The _Falcon_ is built for a smuggler’s crew of fifteen, and currently houses forty eight terrified, broken Resistance fighters. Despite the air filtration systems, it still stinks of sweat and fear: a thick, cloying reek that settles on your skin and lines your throat. What Finn wouldn’t give for a refresher; astringent soap. Scrape away all the oil-slick feeling of the last few days.

Rose’s blood is still under his nails. He wants desperately to wash it away and yet he does not.

Forty eight people in  space meant for fifteen. They’re crowded into the corridors, bodies strewn like rubble, and as Finn steps over Kaydel Ko Connix he hesitates for a moment, fear snatching at his heart

( _slips fell and never stood again and rose will live but thousands won’t and blood stinks like – )_

and then her little chest rises and falls; she twitches in her sleep. Finn releases a breath he hadn’t realised that he’d been holding and continues on his way.

Somewhere, someone is crying and trying very hard to sound like they are not. Someone else is praying, low and urgent. And yet mainly it is achingly silent; oppressively silent; the sort of silence that sucks at the edge of every sound made, absorbing it.

As he turns the corner leading to Chewie’s quarters – where he assumes that Rey will be – he passes a section of blank metal wall. Someone has written: MAY THE FORCE WATCH OVER US.

Every time Finn breathes in he tastes Rose’s burned hair; her cooked skin. Every time he blinks he sees her blood, pulsing out onto the glittering surface of Crait. This one will live, the Force has decreed, and thousands will not, and anger boils up in Finn’s chest, low and curdling. His breath snags into a sob. The Force is a capricious, dreadful _bitch_. A fucking _predator_ , a _monster,_ and it cares about Kylo Ren and Skywalkers and hang the rest.

( _Finn?_ )

Rey nudges at the edge of his mind.

( _Finn? Finn?)_

Thin. Pleading. A whisper of a voice.

( _I’m coming Rey, I’m coming._ )

 

–

 

Chewie’s bed is occupied by: one Wookie, one droid, one very little Jedi, one pilot, and a bevy of small, flappy rodent-things. Rey leaps from her nest in Chewie’s arms and heads straight for Finn. Finn meets her halfway, gathers her up; her feet swing up, knot around his waist, and she clings. Her breath is hot in his ear. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

Finn kisses Rey’s cheeks, her forehead, stroking her hair: guileless, desperate touching, just wanting to reassure himself that she is here, whole and unharmed and alive. He adds to the tally on his heart: _Rose Tico will live; Rey will live_.

Poe coughs delicately; he’s standing just outside of reach, his eyes downcast, his mouth pulled tight. It’s like his pilot’s smirk has died, and this is the pale ghost left. Finn keeps one arm propping Rey up – she shows no inclination to unwind from his waist – and offers the other hand to Poe. He half-expects a handshake, but is gratified when Poe follows Rey’s lead, pressing up against Finn, close as baby cadets in their first barracks.

His hair smells of smoke and death. Finn thinks: _Rose Tico will live; Rey will live; Poe Dameron will live_.

Chewie groan-growls. Rey’s laugh is watery with sobs. She presses a kiss to Finn’s temple – lightning rushes through Finn’s marrow, his skin burning where her lips have touched; he thinks of Rose and Poe and _oh no_ – and jumps down.

“Chewie wants to give you a hug as well,” Rey informs him, moments before eight foot of Wookie sweeps Finn off the ground. Chewie shoves his face against Finn’s and _coos_ , and there’s a sound that Finn didn’t know Wookies could make.

“He’s saying that – that he’s so glad you made it. He’s saying that – oh _Force_ – that he’s your packfather now. He’s – oh _Chewie_ – he’s adopting all of us. He says we’re useless kits who need to be cared for. So uh. There.”

Chewie gives Finn one hard squeeze and deposits him in the overcrowded bed, where a collection of small peeping things immediately clamber onto him.

“What are these?” says Finn. They seem to be eighty percent eyes and twenty per cent scream. He likes them at once.

“Porgs,” says Poe. One has made itself at home in his hair. “They’re Chewie’s new pets.”

Chewie growls.

“...oh, I’m sorry. _House guests_.”

Now that he is horizontal, Finn’s body is remembering its exhaustion. A yawn splits his face open. Rey clambers over Chewie so she can cuddle up to Finn, tucking her head under his chin. Chewie adjusts his arm so Finn is enveloped by a tide of Wookie hair – which stinks, by the way, but it is better than the reek of fear and sweat – and just like that, nested together, he falls asleep.

 

–

 

It would be lovely to say he did not dream, but that would not be true.

He’s standing in a snow-drenched forest. Stars spangle above; branches hunger towards them, skeletal and starved. He tries to step forwards before finding he’s trapped; his legs are roots, sunk deep into the earth.

“Please join me,” says Kylo Ren, coalescing from the dark and the snow. His face is bisected: half in shadow, half in bright light. “Please.” He offers his hand. And Rey, beautiful proud Rey, shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “No, I –”

“You are nothing. You’re _nobody_ . Don’t you see that?” says Kylo Ren, kindly. He smiles at her and Finn tries to scream _no please he’s lying_ but he can’t, his throat is stoppered up, his legs are roots, and he cannot move, he cannot –

“But you are somebody to _me_.”

_Liar, liar, liar –_

“That’s not true,” Rey says. “I have people who care – “

“Luke left you. Han used you. Leia doesn’t love you. She’d sacrifice you in a heartbeat to save her precious rebellion.” He doesn’t raise his voice; he speaks as though everything he says is perfectly reasonable. He _smiles_ at her, he keeps _smiling_ at her. “Come on. Sit with me.”

He sits down on a fallen log, pats the spot next to him. Rey hesitates for a moment, then takes his offer. Finn yanks at his legs until his bones creak, but he doesn’t work: he’s rooted there, under the snow and in the dark earth.

“And I know that you think have friends,” continues Kylo Ren, while Finn tries to scream _you bastard, you liar, you liar, Rey, Rey, REY –_ “But they don’t love you. Not really. Poe Dameron has only just met you. You’re an interesting distraction, but his heart lies with the General and his Resistance.”

“Finn – “ starts Rey, and Kylo Ren shakes his head.

“Finn’s in love with that engineer. What’s her name?”

“Rose Tico.”

“Precisely. Why would he want you? He’s got her now. He’s in love with her. And she’s so sweet and uncomplicated; a hero who was willing to die for him. You’re so much more than he can ever understand. But I understand you. I care about you. I want to help you. Ever since I saw you, I’ve just wanted…” and _no, no, no_ he’s reaching for her hair, pushing it away from her face, tipping his head on one side.

_But Rey wouldn’t –_

It’s then when Finn notices her hands: clenched tight on the log, the knuckles spiking up into white spires. Her forearms are shaking with effort. And the, with a flash, he understands: _this isn’t just his nightmare._

He isn’t the only one who can’t move.

Kylo Ren leans forwards, snaking his fingers into Rey’s hair, pulling her closer – _pulling_ , because she’s tensing her spine, trying to yank herself backwards. Her face is drawn tight, her eyes darting about in terror as Kylo Ren touches his lips to hers.

 _REY –_ and he cannot scream, and she cannot move, and –

 

–

 

“Finn! _Finn!_ ”

Finn snaps awake, sits bolt upright, reaching for a blaster that isn’t there.

( _I’ll kill him, I’ll KILL HIM – )_

Those aren’t his thoughts. He looks over: Rey’s sitting straight up as well, held tight by Chewie. Her face is bright white, save for two brilliant flags of colour on her cheeks; her lips are pulled back from her teeth. She’s ready to tear out hearts with her hands.

“Did you dream – “

“Yes, me too –”

“It isn’t true, it isn’t –” and Chewie releases Rey, and Poe sits aside and Finn and Rey tangle together.

“He’s a liar – “

“I know, I’d never, _never_ – “

“It was just a dream – “

“No,” says Rey, pulling back. “No it wasn’t. That was his dream as well. That was _his dream_ , he was _enjoying it_ , that’s what he _wants,_  he wants  _me_ –”

Cold fingers trill down Finn’s spine. “I’ll kill him before I let him touch you.”

“Same to you. Finn, I promise. I swear.” She presses their foreheads together. “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I _hate him_ – “

Finn kisses Rey’s forehead. “Shhh. Rebellions aren’t built on destroying what you hate. They’re built on defending what you love.”

“ _Who_ you love,” Rey says.

“Yes,” says Finn, looking up over her shoulder: at Poe, at Chewie, at those Force-damned porgs.

_Forty eight. That’s enough._

_Do you believe that?_

_I have to._

 

–

  


“Sixty eight,” says Finn to Poe, the next morning. Porgs cluster around his feet, yelling up at him; he has three on one shoulder, two on the other, and a third snuggled up in the V of his jacket.

“You’re counting the porgs?”

“ _Yes_ , I’m counting the porgs. They’re part of this.”

“If you’re counting the porgs,” says Poe, “then that brings us up to – um – eighty four. I think. There are some in Chewie’s quarters.”

“We should count them.”

“Yeah, we should.”

And so for the next few hours, Finn and Poe chase around the _Falcon_ , rounding up the small flappy things. They find three nests full of fluff – baby porgs are born with huge eyes and hungry, open beaks – and two porgs in the act of making more little porgs.

(The latter pair send them on their way with indignant squawks. Finn laughs until he cries.)

Rey joins them midway through the hunt. They explain what they are doing with grave solemnity, and she agrees with equal solemnity that yes, this is essential Resistance work. She opens up her Force awareness, saying that porgs flicker and dance in the Force like any other lifeform and also there are some nesting in Chewie’s back hair.

By the end of it, they have revised the total up to one hundred and twenty eight. By the end of the day, the eggs in Chewie’s back hair hatch and it goes up to one hundred and thirty.

 

–

 

One hundred and thirty, including the porgs. Finn’s got names scratched into his heart and a lot of wild, intense feelings that he’s not sure what to do with: he spends his time curled up with Rey, or trying to sneak into see Rose, or tucked under Poe’s arm, listening to war stories.

On the fourth day, the commslink starts to shrill. Leia opens it up, and a flickering blue hologram of a very rich, very handsome man pops up.

“Princess,” says Lando Calrissian. “I’m sorry I’m too late – “

“It’s never too late Lando.”

“How can I help?” he says.

One hundred and thirty one, including the porgs and Lando Calrissian.

It’s not much, but it is a start.

  
  



End file.
